It rained most of the train ride down to New York City this past weekend -- an appropriate gesture for the sad occasion prompting my sudden trip. On November 9, Ellen Willis died of lung cancer.

When I applied to the cultural reporting and criticism program at NYU, which she founded and directed, it was the only one of its kind. And still is, I'm pretty sure. Other J-schools had your typical newspaper/magazine/broadcast sub-divisions, but it seemed only Ellen-- one-time New Yorker rock critic, Rolling Stone and Village Voice writer, pro-sex feminist-- understood that there were young journalists out there who were interested in covering more than the usual; that, as her 22-year-old daughter Nona puts it, "pop culture, politics and national identity were all inextricable." In my application essay, I wrote that I intended to report on Asian, Asian-American, and youth popular culture: how rock 'n roll affected gay politics in China, punk subculture in OC, the films of Wong Kar Wai. A couple months later, she called offering me a spot in the department.

Once, at a party, Lou Reed walked up to her and said, "So, this is what Ellen Willis looks like." She stared back at him with her deep, sleepy eyes and nodded, "Yep." I imagine she must have intimidated him just like she intimidated many of us grad students with her infinite brilliance, halting speech, and constant contemplation of ideas.

We should only be so lucky to be so fierce.